Hidden Void
by GalaxyInfinite
Summary: The Phantom thinks he's a ghost, and Christine believes in angels. This story explores emptiness in people's lives, which they hide from others and themselves. However, this story would be incomplete without the most important element. Music. Note: Raoul will be close to canon, and the storyline will be believable whilst still Erik/Christine.
1. Ghost

**I do not own any version of the Phantom of the Opera.**

**This chapter begins during the time before the Phantom meets Christine. The second part of this chapter takes place later on in the story.**

******* The Phantom isn't actually a ghost, he just thinks he is.**

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POV: The Phantom

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As if by magic, they did not see me as I slipped past them. They did not notice my soundless footsteps. They did not notice my black cloak. They did not notice my ghostly transparency*.

I did not glance at them. I did not need to know whether they were staff, performers, or audience members. They were all the same, and were all ignorant of me. They were all ignorant of the emptiness that existed in their hearts, their minds, and their society.

They did not see me, nor did they feel the absent breeze that would have followed me like a slipstream. I didn't have enough life to displace the air as I walked; I was composed of nothing but shadows. The walls weren't even kind enough to let me pass through them like water through sand; I was less than nothing.

I did not glance at them, because of human instinct. Somehow they knew in the back of their minds if I was looking at them. I did not want them to know I was there. I preferred to be left alone…

Once again I found myself at the top of the stairs. I had no memory of walking up the stairs. Another gap in my memory… Another void.

I didn't count the boxes. There was no chance of me entering the wrong one. I didn't remember all of the times I had walked this same route. Zero and infinity are the same.

Unlike the others, my box contained a single chair. Unlike the others, my box was number five. I could not sit in any other box. I didn't remember why.

I knew that no-one would disturb me. That was one of the few constants in a world that I did not understand. The world above the ground had almost no logic. The world outside of my opera house had none.

My black gloves rested in my lap. The box around me was blank and silent. The audience beneath me was restless and spoke with a thousand whispers. The stage was silent, and the performers were concealed behind a thick curtain of red.

Beneath the stage was the orchestra. They were still completing a last-minute tuning. I half-listened as they all played an A note in unison, and then the strings broke off into their own chaotic countermelody of D, G, C, and E. The orchestra was silent once more, signalling the imminent performance.

The curtains began to rise. I could picture in my mind's eye one of the Opéra staff turning the mechanism. The audience's thousand whispers dissolved into the air. The conductor waved his baton, signalling for his orchestra to begin.

I listened to the music. The best music allows the listener to lose themselves; to forget the outside world. A listener can live with the sound of the music alone as sustenance. I had long since lost myself, and only music could sustain my continued existence.

Constant melodies and counter-melodies ran through my mind. Music flooded all else, as if it was a river beneath a waterfall. Notes, chords, and harmonies tore through my mind. Music blanked out all else, like bright rays of light illuminating the shadows.

I listened for the intervals between notes. The rhythm and texture didn't seem to matter so much, but they were also the most important. Without them, the notes would not merge harmoniously. Precision was essential.

Whenever the music within my mind lacked precision, or the notes did not seem right, I would not be able to rest. I would sit at my organ through the night and into the next day, unceasing until perfection was reached. The intervals between notes tormented me if I tried to sleep in such a situation. Music was my addiction.

I lived beneath the opera house because it was where music resided. My obsession compelled me to do so. Sometimes I stayed below, and could hear the music filtering through the walls of the labyrinth. Sometimes I would venture beyond the trapdoors, into the higher levels of my domain.

When I sat with the audience, I distanced myself from others. I was a ghost, and could find no place amongst the mortal. Even when I had been a boy, a chimaera amongst gypsies, I hadn't had a place. My only shelter had been music.

I listened to the opera because it cleansed my senses. As I lived alone in the depths, my mind would eventually become lost in the brambles of half-formed thoughts and mistakes. In the presence of the music of others, my thoughts would unknot, and my inspiration would return. When I lost myself in the music of others, I would almost forget that I am a ghost.

As the last note of the last bar ended, the curtains fell. I knew that it was time to return to my home beneath the Opéra. The curtains were raised again, but I could see no point in watching the performers take their bow. They would not sing any more this night.

The stairs beneath my feet were another reminder of my curse. The stairs were a barrier, not letting my feet pass through like a ghost's feet should. The stairs made no sound, not producing a comforting rhythm like a man's feet should. A haunting melody filled my mind, and I remembered no more…

* * *

(Future)

* * *

When Act 1 ended, I left box five. On most nights, I didn't leave my box at interval and would sit there through the entire opera. Tonight, my seat would be vacant for the remainder of the opera. Instead, I would be moving to my vantage point above the stage.

I walked as one with the audience until I reached the stairs. Instead of going down towards the Opéra's other facilities, I went up. I alone walked up the stairs, but those walking down didn't seem to notice. No-one notices a ghost.

Above the stage lived a forest of ropes. There were uncountable thousands of ropes staffed by only a handful of men. I knew every weakness; I knew which ropes could cause a minor inconvenience, and which ropes would cause injury to the workers above or the performers below. I knew which ropes could kill.

Above the stage, the workers could move about upon a series of wooden platforms suspended from the ceiling. There was one particular rope that I chose for to this occasion. Its position provided a vantage point, so that I could watch what occurred below. Once I reached this rope, I hid in the shadows...

He stood before me, but his back was turned and he was yet oblivious. Over a week had passed since the last 'accident'. That last accident had been one of many. Often they occurred during rehearsals and performances, and often they occurred without my aid. Any tiny mistake was blamed upon my ghostly haunting.

I still did not know his name, but I recognised him. After that first incident, I had noticed him many more times. He was regularly late, and often would not arrive at his post at all. I sometimes looked for him in the labyrinth, and found him walking away from restricted areas.

My hand was ready; I held a rope. It was tied in a Punjab lasso, my weapon of choice. I stepped out of the shadows, standing with an emperor's grace and authority. With the black leather of my glove, I tapped him on the shoulder.

He shuddered at my touch. I could almost hear the accelerando and crescendo of his heart. He spun on the spot, and faced me with an expression of wild fright painted on his face. I watched as the focus of his eye drifted to the right side of my face; my mask.

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**I don't know whether to continue with this story. Please tell me what you think.**


	2. Orphan

**I edited the last chapter quite a bit, so that the plotline of this story would make logical sense. If you read the first chapter before the day before yesterday, you might find it beneficial to read the new version.**

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POV: Christine

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A single tear bled from my eye. I could not remember what Sundays smelled like, or the sound of the ocean, or the twinkle in father's eyes when he smiled at me. All of the happiness that had once blessed us had left with him, and only blank emptiness remained. Wherever I went, I was always reminded of him. He had been my life, and he was gone.

I could still hear the last words he said to me. I had been at his deathbed, and he had whispered to me. My father promised me that when he went to heaven, he would send to me the angel of music. My father promised me.

I heard Madame Giry's voice, but could not hear the words. It was as if she was speaking to me from a great distance…

"_Christine!_" a sharp voice uttered. I blinked as I became aware of my surroundings. The woman's face faded into view.

"Yes, Madame Giry?" I sobbed. Her sharp features softened as she saw my tear-streaked face.

"We are nearly there," she said gently.

"What is going to happen to me?" I asked.

"We will speak of that when we get there."

"Yes, Madame."

I could hear the coach scraping in their path along the road. The wheels of the coach played a rhythmic percussion with every embedded stone. The coach followed the sound of the horses' hooves as they pulled me towards my place of banishment. I was an orphan; my father was gone.

* * *

The flickering light of a single candle illuminated the room. My legs were crossed as I sat on the floor. I could almost feel the warmth of my father's spirit. The chapel's stone walls were plastered with heavenly images.

Surrounded by divine figures, I thought again of my father's last words. Heavenly wings sprouted from behind the shoulders of the angels. I searched the images, wondering which angel was mine. _Angel of music, hide no longer_, I thought.

My eyes returned from the wingtip of a magnificent angel back to the flame of the candle. Through the warmth of that humble flame, I could almost imagine my father being there in the chapel with me. I hoped that my father would find the angel of music quickly. I knew that the angel would come, but I hoped that he found me soon.

I hadn't told anyone about the angel of music. There were some who knew the story, but they did not know that it was true. I knew in my heart that the angel of music would find me, and protect me. My father promised me.

The candle before me burned lower and lower. If only candles burned forever, my father's spirit would always be there with me. The flickering light licked the stone walls, oscillating the colours painted on the walls. I stared at the tiny flame, and longed to touch it, but I could not without being burned.

In my heart I knew that the flame was my father. Fire is not hard like stone or wood, nor did it flow like water. Fire was magical, and in this holy room it merged with the heavens. The living cannot touch heaven without being damaged by it, but I still longed to touch the flame.

I could not reach my father in heaven. No words could be exchanged. Our only communication was a sense of warmth, a bond which I could feel in my heart. That bond could be felt strongest in holy places such as this, where heaven was so close.

I wondered whether father had found the angel yet. I imagined him wearing white robes, at peace amongst the clouds. I imagined him with his eyes closed, in a tranquil state because he had found the angel. I imagined the angel opening his glistening wings, and diving through the clouds to this world.

The angel would know how to find me. Father knew that I would live with Madame Giry in the opera house. The angel would know to look here, because he knew I would be waiting for him here. I would wait here until the angel came.

* * *

"Come on, Christine!" squealed Meg Giry. Meg was Madame Giry's daughter. She was only a year younger than me, and treated me like a sister. She was the nicest girl here.

"I can't," I said. She had already forced me into a leotard and tight-fitting ballet shoes that squashed my toes. Now she was trying to drag me into a ballet class.

"You have to," she protested. "You've missed three lessons already."

"I'm not a good dancer," I said miserably. That was true, but the main reason was that I had been spending almost all of my time in the opera house's chapel.

"That's because you haven't started yet," she responded. "Dancing is really fun. I've been dancing all of your life."

"I know. I'll never be as good as you."

"But you have my mother to teach you," she said joyfully. "I could give you extra lessons if you want."

"I can't dance," I said, but she ignored me and started dragging me by the arm.

"Come on!"

"I don't want to…"

"You can't keep hiding. You've got to learn to dance."

I realised I was fighting a losing battle. Meg was not one to give up easily. I didn't have the strength to stand my ground. I had been fragile ever since my father…

I joined the other dancers, and joined the back line. Meg was standing right at the front, and when she realised I wasn't standing next to her she turned around and stuck her tongue out at me.

When it was time to begin dancing, everyone else began without me. The movements were unfamiliar, and I couldn't follow what the others were doing. I tried mimicking them, but I was unsteady on my feet. I stood completely still, so that I would not trip over my own feet.

One of the other girls bumped into me. It took me by surprise, and I didn't know what to do, so I just stuttered an apology. She looked at me as if I had done it on purpose.

"Mademoiselle, what are you doing?" asked the dance teacher. She was not Madame Giry; I did not know what her name was. Meg had told me that Madame Giry taught older girls.

"I don't…"

"What is your name, mademoiselle?" she asked.

"Christine," I whispered.

"Get back in line," she commanded.

I did what she said. All of the other girls had stopped dancing, and were watching me. I returned to my position in the back line. I was embarrassed. Everyone was acting like I knew what I was doing, but I was lost.

"Continue," said the teacher.

When I did not start like the others, she looked at me with a fierce expression on her face. I felt so trapped. I didn't want to disappoint the teacher, but I didn't know how not to. I couldn't find the words to tell her that I hadn't done dancing before. If my father had been alive, I wouldn't have been in this situation.

"What are you doing, Christine? Why are you not dancing?" she asked fiercely.

I tried to respond, but I couldn't find my voice. My eyes were filled with tears. I covered my face with my hands. I could hear her angry voice, but in my misery I could not make out the words.

I ran from the room, leaving the baffled teacher and young ballerinas behind. I descended the stairs, and almost slipped in my unfamiliar shoes. The whole world seemed to race past me as I ran through corridor after corridor. After a while I was exhausted and could not run any further.

It was only then that I realised that I was lost.

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**I'm not religious, so I hope I did ok with the chapel scene.**


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